Conciliatory
by The Naked King
Summary: Monarchshipping AU. It's best to read it if you want to know because I honestly don't know if I can explain it to you in any certain terms. It's meant to be hard to follow on purpose - I was playing with a style that forces a reader to make inferences.


Conciliatory

"And this notable piece is a lovely example of 18th Dynasty statuary," Mr. Bakura explained to his high school aged son and his best friend with the flourish of an enthusiast. "We aren't able to put a proper name to this face, because you see the cartouche has been written over by another Pharaoh … "

Already Ryou Bakura and Yami Nakamura knew this speech. They'd heard it again and again, ever since Mr. Bakura had landed his job at Domino Museum. Personally, and Yami agreed, Ryou was just happy to see his father at peace; though Amane and his Mother would never come back, it was good to see that something could keep his father's mind occupied.

Yami was just glad to see Ryou so happy for his father for once. It was a nice change, even if it meant spending everyday at the creepy museum with these creepy Ancient Egyptian artifacts.

Even if it meant being watched by the man in the wheelchair.

"So they really don't know who he is, Mr. Bakura?" Yami asked even as he looked into that stone face, its eyes impassive, though its mysterious smile felt almost like a challenge.

He wanted to punch the statue in its smug face.

"Not even an idea," Mr. Bakura laughed. "But that doesn't matter. Recently a large collection of his artifacts have been unearthed, and though most are nameless it is still a huge discovery! Just think! A previously undiscovered Pharaoh …!"

Yami didn't think it was so remarkable considering that Ancient Egypt had thrived thousands of years ago and for at least two millennia. A few names were bound to go missing.

He wasn't really paying attention when Mr. Bakura moved on, or when Ryou reluctantly left him behind. This wasn't the first time Yami had stayed behind, and it wouldn't be the last. He would just catch up with them later, and besides, it would take Mr. Bakura another hour to make his rounds.

"I am seriously so beyond sick of you, okay?"

"You're lying and we both know it," was the response of the man in the wheelchair, who rolled forward from his hiding spot behind a wall partition. "You enjoy my company otherwise you would not keep speaking with me like this every day."

Yami looked at the foreigner out of the corner of his eye, frowning deeply. He was right, of course, but he would never admit it aloud. Not to anything, especially not the draw he felt toward the other.

"You feel it, don't you?" the other began, his red eyes fixed, as far as Yami could tell, on the statue. "The connection? And you know why, too, I think."

"Oh my _**god**_, if you're going to start with this again, I swear that I'm leaving." Yami said with an exasperated sigh, throwing up his hands in frustration.

He spun to leave, but a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. "You won't do that, Yami. You never do."

And Yami sighed, pulling away but turning back around. "So you're still stuck on this whole thing where I'm your reincarnation, right?"

"Not my reincarnation," the other replied. "That's impossible. I'm not dead."

"Whatever. A part of your soul." He rolled his eyes. "I don't even know why the hell I put up with you. All you do is talk crazy."

"Hush now," the man reached out and grabbed his hand again, entwining their fingers for a brief moment. Yami made the mistake of looking into his eyes and found himself trapped by the other's gaze, so ancient and so very lonely. "You didn't think I was crazy last week and you still don't think I'm crazy now. I doubt you've ever felt that way about me."

He couldn't look away, his emotions and words caught somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, and he remembered the heat of the other's mouth and his disjointed pleas. It was a painful silence now, uneasy as his palpitating heart, and as deep as the hurt in their souls that had only been healed in the one moment of euphoric passion.

"You're right, I don't …" he sighed into the space between them, "You're right."

"I'm seldom wrong," the man replied, releasing Yami from his gaze at last.

"Except for that one time," Yami reminded him none too gently.

"Yes, except for that one time, which is why we are the way we are now," he replied, his voice laced with the weight of three thousand's millennia regret. "Which is why I lost you, so that I could live forever and pay for my mistake." He closed his eyes, and Yami took the chance to examine his face, unblemished and immortal but somehow aged with care and pain. "You will never know how sorry I am. To you. To everyone I lost. I wish there had been another way."

"But I'm here now," Yami blurted. "And you're not alone anymore."

The other opened his eyes, and Yami felt that red stare upon him, though he was looking at the statue now instead. It may still bear the likeness of his companion, but somehow it was hard to connect that haughty face to the man next to him. How many lifetimes had it been since they were that person in the statue instead of a recluse high school student and a man so old he'd lost all but the physical traces of his ethnicity?

"You will come over again."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I will come again."

The other's eyes did not waver for a long moment, but at last those eyes looked elsewhere and Yami finally felt that he could breathe.

"Good," there was a creak as the wheelchair pulled away. "Then I will see you then."

Yami did not watch him go, but he felt tears roll down his face that were not his own.


End file.
